


Baptism

by orphan_account



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Trans Oikawa Tooru, time capsules
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 13:53:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6568882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oikawa Tooru was born twice into this world; first, as a baby girl, on a remarkably foggy Tokyo morning in the summer of 1999, and then again, as a teenage boy, in a changing room of a clothing store in Shibuya in March of 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baptism

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhh so this is sort of rushed, and it's a little different than what I usually write, but I thought it was interesting.

 

_so grin and cry, if that will move you—_

_in the depth of the dark ocean—_

_get past that wave to empty swimming pools, and clench those white teeth, in the night—_

_until you see the lighthouse in the distance calling your name, that glimmer of hope—_

_the incarnation complete._

**_anonymous_ **

Oikawa Tooru was born twice into this world; first, as a baby girl, on a remarkably foggy Tokyo morning in the summer of 1999, and then again, as a teenage boy, in a changing room of a clothing store in Shibuya in March of 2010.

He’d tried on clothing from the boys’ section, and it all fell into place from there.

His family had always known. His friends had all begun to suspect that he hadn’t told them the full story of his life, especially Hajime. He really hadn’t been surprised when Tooru had told him the truth in autumn of that year, scrambling over his words, and apologising that he had to be so damn complicated, and that he’d made everything difficult.

“It’s not difficult,” he’d told him, “You were born again, that’s all.”

“You have to die first in order to be born again,” Tooru replied.

“Fine,” said Hajime, “I’ll kill you, then. I’ll do it right now.”

And Tooru laughed, because Tooru was born with the gift of laughter, and a sense that the world was mad, and an undying, solemn love for one Iwaizumi Hajime.

 

Things were fine, to begin with, until the moment that, late in Tooru’s thirteenth year, his mother had decided that he was depressed, presumably because he had rarely left the house, ignored all initiations of human contact, and spent a lot of time in bed, watching T.V. or reading the same book over and over— _Metamorphosis_ by Kafka, in English, because he was good, like that— and he ate infrequently, too, he’d lost weight, and he had dark circles under his eyes.

He also spent quite a bit of his free time to thinking about death.

Hajime visited him a lot, in those weeks, when it was stormy outside, and fog and mist were brewing.

“Do you want surgery, or something?” he asked him, lying beside him on his bed.

Tooru sniffled.

“I don’t know,” he said, “I don’t know. Do I have to get surgery?”

Hajime shrugged.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” he answered.

Tooru licked his lips.

“I don’t know what I have to be.” he said.

“You don’t have to be a whole lot,” Hajime had told him, “You just have to be a person.”

 

It was easier said than done.

It took Tooru another year to become the person he wanted to be, the identity he had carefully carved out for himself, for he had always believed in the person he wanted to be.

In the end, that person was Oikawa Tooru, this smart kid, with bright smiles and pale skin and big brown eyes, with innate ambition and drive for success.

He knew what he’d have to do in order to become the person he wanted to be. He would stop at nothing.

When he told Hajime that, he laughed.

“That’s silly,” he said, “You better not tell anyone that but God.”

 

The fragility of his genius was that it required an audience, and in high-school, Tooru had found it in the entirety of the volleyball team.

“I’m in love,” he swooned, cascading through the locker-room one afternoon in September.

Issei snorted.

“With whom this time?” he asked.

Tooru sighed.

“His name is Takehiko, and he’s wonderful.”

That was when it all started, the dating, and all; Tooru had turned himself into a self-proclaimed cock-slut, since he was always a try-anything kind of guy, over winter break.

It was easier to try and forget about Hajime, that way, though, at the same time, Hajime had never made it harder for Tooru to stop thinking about him, about what they could be, if Hajime would let them.

“You should be careful,” Hajime told him, one evening, lying on the grass of Tooru’s backyard, staring up at the sky, “Not everyone— I mean, some people might try and hurt you.”

“Hurt me?”

“Yeah,” he said, “They’d try to hurt you, or use you just for— y’know…,” he trailed off, biting his lip. Tooru turned his head to the side and looked at Hajime for a long while.

“For what?” he asked.

“Sex,”

Tooru hitched his breath. He was blushing, now, and Hajime was too. He hadn’t met his gaze, though, not yet.

“Oh,” Tooru voiced meekly.

They were silent, then.

“Is it because I’m—”

“Yes,” Hajime interrupted.

They never had to say the word; he always knew what Tooru had meant. He knew him too well.

“I’ll be careful,” Tooru said, “You don’t have to worry.”

“I’m not worried,” Hajime replied.

“I know,” Tooru hummed.

Hajime shuffled beside him. In the distance, a car alarm went off.

“It’s just that— you know, not everyone is a fundamentally good person,” he said, and then he rolled onto his side to face Tooru. Tooru stared at him, for a long while, and then he sighed agreeably.

 

Hajime did not speak about Tooru’s dating habits long after that, and Tooru had never asked Hajime about his experiences with girls, or whatever. It was too painful.

Once, Hajime had caught Tooru, red handed and guilty, in the bathrooms, long after school ended, fooling around with one of the second year boys on the football team. He was the vice-captain. Tooru always had a thing for vice-captains, since they were kind and gentle and, at the same time, assertive and dominant and leaders in every sense in the world, which is how he found himself balancing on the wall of the stall.

One of the vice-captain’s hands was in Tooru’s underwear, two fingers pressed clumsily inside of him, the other was jerking himself off, roughly.  Hot and damp breath fanned over Tooru’s neck, and Tooru’s own fingers dug into his shoulders, in an effort to hold onto something, _anything_ , since it had felt as though he had lost all control far too quickly, and he was shaking, now, and he wondered whether he was drowning, gasping for air as the vice-captain hooked his fingers upwards. Tooru moaned, loud and drawn out. He felt like a porn star.

The door opened.

“Oh,” was all Hajime said, “Sorry.”

He closed the door, and Tooru wasn’t breathing at this point.

“That was close,” the other had said, “Thank God it was just Hajime, right?” he laughed.

Tooru barked a single laugh, too, weakly.

“Yeah,” he replied, “Thank God it was only just Hajime.”

 

It was almost December, and Tooru was beginning to feel frightened. Hajime hadn’t said a word about what had happened.

“I’ll start taking hormones over winter break,” Tooru told him on the way to school, early in the morning. The sky was grey, and it was foggy.

“That’s good,” Hajime replied.

He hadn’t even looked at him when he said it.

 

They didn’t speak long after that.

 

In the same month, Tooru had attended his first of many parties, at his then-boyfriend Eiji’s place. Eiji was the captain of the baseball team. Tooru had moved to the big leagues, now.

“Come on,” Eiji had said, “Finish your drink.”

Tooru did. The alcohol slid down his throat, and it burned. After the third whiskey-cola, three cigarettes, and five hits of a badly rolled joint, Tooru had latched onto Eiji, thin fingers trailing over Eiji’s thighs and neck, until Eiji had groaned lowly into his throat and took him upstairs, to his bedroom.

“Fuck me,” Tooru slurred into his ear, “Fuck me— _fuck me_.”

And Eiji did.

The next morning, Tooru woke up with a striking headache, the feeling that something crawled into his throat and died. His limbs hurt, and his muscles burned, and he recognised an unfamiliar aching between his hips. Eiji was sleeping next to him, rolled onto his stomach, and his back was littered with scratch marks.

Tooru slid his eyes shut, slowly, and bit his bottom lip.

Now, more than nothing more, he wished that he could transport to simpler times, into the past, when everything was easier, but it was too late now, and everything was blurred, laced with lies and deceit.

The truth resisted simplicity, and Tooru always had been everything but simple.

 

In the winter of his discontent, three days later, Tooru had decided to open the time capsule that Hajime and he had buried beneath his lawn all those years ago. He was 16 now, and surely, it must have been ten years, maybe even more.

It was dark. Tooru had grabbed a shovel and decisively begun digging after the third time he woke up in the night.

“It’s five in the morning,” a voice said behind him.

Tooru whipped his head around. It was Hajime.

“Your mother asked me to come over,” he continued, as though he had known that Tooru wanted to know how Hajime could have possible forecasted this situation, “She’s worried, since— y’know, most teenagers drink and smoke, and don’t start digging in their gardens at five in the morning.”

Tooru was silent.

“Then again,” Hajime said, stepping closer to Tooru, “You’re not like most teenagers.”

He sat down next to Tooru, and they were so close, now, thighs pressed against each other.

“Do you want to open it?” Tooru asked.

Hajime nodded, and Tooru pried the tin box open, brushing the dirt off the top.

It looked just like he remembered. There were two letters in it, with scrawling childish, innocent handwriting, and some sweets, hard, now.

“I’ll read mine first,” Hajime said, smiling a little.

“‘ _Dear Future Me,_ ’” he began, “‘ _I hope you are very, very tall and strong. I hope that you are the ace of your team,_ ’”

Tooru laughed softly, and Hajime looked at him with such fondness it hurt deeply.

“‘ _I also hope that—_ ’” Hajime said, though he stopped abruptly, eyes scanning the rest of the letter in the dim light of the moon and the nearby lampposts.

“What does it say?” Tooru asked, “Are you embarrassed, Hajime?”

Hajime froze, and looked into the distance with an all too serious expression.

“C’mon,” Tooru said, grabbing the letter out of Hajime’s grip, “It can’t be that bad— ‘ _I also hope that you marry Tooru and have three dogs and two cats with him and,_ ’” Tooru paused. His throat clenched.

“‘ _That you still love him._ ’” he finished, weakly. He tore his gaze away from the letter to look at Hajime. His lips were pressed tightly together into a thin white line, and he stared back at Hajime. His gaze was a concoction of raw desire and desperation and hope, too. Tooru’s eyes were stinging.

“What?” Tooru said, his voice raw and rough.

“Tooru,” Hajime spoke. He whispered the name as though it were a prayer.

“Do you mean it?” Tooru asked.

Hajime licked his lips.

“Yeah,” he croaked.

Tooru bit the inside of his mouth.

“I love you,” Hajime said.  The words had ghosted out of his mouth, and they were hanging between them, heavily, waiting for one of them to grab the phrase, cherish it, or burn it, since it could only ever go one way or another.

Tooru wasn’t breathing, at this point.

“I love you, too.” he said, and it was so easy.

 

The next morning, Tooru woke up beside Hajime. He turned on his side and held Hajime’s hand. His face was close to his, and they were silent, staring at each other, breathes evening out until they mirrored each other completely, connected mentally and physically, pushing and pulling against each other like the rush of the tide.

“Am I dreaming?” Tooru asked.

“No,” Hajime replied, and then he smiled. When Hajime smiled, the corners of his mouth spread within an unimportant distance of his ears, and his eyes got smaller, and some diverging, faint wrinkles appeared around them, extending upon his countenance like rays of some sketch of a rising sun.

It was a pleasure, to be with him. Tooru had always thought so. Things slowed down. It was simple, and it reminded him of summer, of dipping your feet into swimming pools and listening to the buzz of cicadas.

“Don’t leave,” Tooru murmured, “Please, don’t leave.”

 “I won’t,” he replied, voice hushed, “It’s too late for that, Tooru. If I wanted to leave you, I would have had to do that years ago.”

Tooru laughed, then, because it was so easy.

**Author's Note:**

> : )


End file.
